At that moment, the colonel and hostess-duties distracted her.  But she came back in snatches.  She was a woman who reminded him a little of Queen Victoria; so assured in her own room, a large part of her attention always given to the successful issue of her duties, the remainder at the disposal of her guests.  It was an old-fashioned, not unpleasant feeling:  like retrospect.  But she had beautiful, big, smooth emeralds and sapphires on her fingers.  Money!  What a curious thing it is!  Aaron noticed the deference of all the guests at table:  a touch of obsequiousness:  before the money!  And the host and hostess accepted the deference, nay, expected it, as their due.  Yet both Sir William and Lady Franks knew that it was only money and success.  They had both a certain afterthought, knowing dimly that the game was but a game, and that they were the helpless leaders in the game.  They had a certain basic ordinariness which prevented their making any great hits, and which kept them disillusioned all the while.  They remembered their poor and insignificant days.

“And I hear you were playing in the orchestra at Covent Garden.  We came back from London last week.  I enjoyed Beecham’s operas so much.”

“Which do you like best?” said Aaron.

“Oh, the Russian.  I think Ivan.  It is such fine music.”

“I find Ivan artificial.”

“Do you?  Oh, I don’t think so.  No, I don’t think you can say that.”

Aaron wondered at her assurance.  She seemed to put him just a tiny bit in his place, even in an opinion on music.  Money gave her that right, too.  Curious—­the only authority left.  And he deferred to her opinion:  that is, to her money.  He did it almost deliberately.  Yes—­ what did he believe in, besides money?  What does any man?  He looked at the black patch over the major’s eye.  What had he given his eye for?—­the nation’s money.  Well, and very necessary, too; otherwise we might be where the wretched Austrians are.  Instead of which—­how smooth his hostess’ sapphires!

“Of course I myself prefer Moussorgsky,” said Aaron.  “I think he is a greater artist.  But perhaps it is just personal preference.”

“Yes. Boris is wonderful.  Oh, some of the scenes in Boris!”

“And even more Kovantchina,” said Aaron.  “I wish we could go back to melody pure and simple.  Yet I find Kovantchina, which is all mass music practically, gives me more satisfaction than any other opera.”

“Do you really?  I shouldn’t say so:  oh, no—­but you can’t mean that you would like all music to go back to melody pure and simple!  Just a flute—­just a pipe!  Oh, Mr. Sisson, you are bigoted for your instrument.  I just LIVE in harmony—­chords, chords!” She struck imaginary chords on the white damask, and her sapphires swam blue.  But at the same time she was watching to see if Sir William had still got beside his plate the white medicine